


One Night

by Pipamonium



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2018-03-01 05:51:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2762015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pipamonium/pseuds/Pipamonium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Poetry about the one and only Severus Snape.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Not Of The Sea

**Author's Note:**

> Cross posted from FF.net

 

not too far away  
on a not so distance isle  
surrounded by a sea of crowded faces  
badgered with lazy waves of hormonal emotions

lives an older young man  
who wraps his emotions around him tight  
so thick and tight it both binds him and blinds him  
once the sea may have loved and embraced him but now they fear him

both frail and hardened is he  
before his time and beyond his years  
irreparable is the damage inflicted  
a hardened heart, a shattered soul, a frail desire to go on

he knows no longer  
if he is coming or if he is going  
in the sea of feelings and faces, emotions and energies  
moving freely around and into each other no regard to the good or the bad created

however what he does know:  
before him they scatter, all too happy to escape him  
around him they tip-toe, hoping his attention they will not catch  
behind him they conjugate, to speak nasty things of him in hushed tones

it hurts and heartens him to know  
of the deep and heavy emotions he installs in them  
and the consequential relationships born through shared feelings  
always loathing, always anger, always sadness, always fear – never love

the hour is growing late  
night has fallen much too soon this evening  
time is flying, the moment of dread draws nearer and nearer  
the few who know of its approach, try to find solace in something dear

he has long ago found his solace  
in his demented way of saying, possibly a final, farewell  
billowing through the halls he catches couples naively ‘playing’  
he sends the lot back to bed with detentions and points down by the pound

his rounds come to an early and swift end  
upon the staircase that leads to his fate he approaches  
he places one foot in front of his other, ascending the stairs  
he fights the urge to look back and say a proper good-bye to the heart that protects

he is not ready to face his fate but his fate he must face at the top of the tallest spire.


	2. The Tallest Spire

he cheaply sold his youth to one  
his age he gave another  
his own man he yearns for, yet may never be

near midnight at the tip of the tallest spire  
he waits, a veritable male damsel in distress,  
for his personal hell to come, his summons three

the first a searing agony tearing through his arm  
the second a heart wrenching report back to the light  
the third and final, another flight here where the wind doth sigh

the fear that grips his heart makes him blissfully unaware  
of the frigid cold wind caressing his exposed pale skin,  
yet he still knows the comforting peaceful embrace of the snow is a lie

below him now a school full of children happily sleep  
not one knows what he is doing, nor what he has done for them  
all dream of sugar plums that can dance and other such things of those sorts

tomorrow they will wake and find to their deepest joy  
mountains of presents, of candies and toys  
perhaps for the youngest of the first years, little toy forts

he leans back on the steepled roof, staring up at the waxen moon,  
fingering a small portkey waiting for the word to be activated  
why he does it nobody knows, it’s just an internal strife

its always the same yet always different, this fear that wells within him  
the loyal servant he must always play, yet should his true loyalties be found  
it would not matter what he’d done, the one who took his youth would surely take his life

he feels sick, his stomach flips and flops and knots  
he tries to swallow past the lump that makes it hard to breath  
he knew it was coming, yet still he jumped when his brand began to smart

he closes his eyes, clears his mind, and wipes his emotional slate squeaky clean  
he fits the silvery mask of indifference snuggly against his long face  
it is all an act which he prides himself for, his own personal form of art

he vanquishes all kindly thought of the fatherly old man below  
and turns them upon his worlds own personal red-eyed demon  
he mentally rattles off the monologue to the latter he must say

he stands and with no more further delay  
he breaths the word that will take him away  
for he must away err before the break of day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first poem I wrote is the second one here.
> 
> 'The Tallest Spire' was written 12 years ago. I was hit by a sudden plot bunny during a class. I knew it was supposed to be part of a series but it was the only one that came out of my pen when I let myself free-write it out. I took notes on what the rest should be but I never got back to it and lost the notes. It was the second to last poem I wrote for pleasure. I'd started getting a feeling for writing prose.
> 
> 'Not Of The Sea' came to me a full 5 years later when I was sitting in my college cafeteria attempting to study. It was the last poem I wrote for pleasure. I now fully write prose - I find it very difficult, now, to write poetry of any kind.


End file.
